


i'll be home (for christmas)

by solizabeth



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solizabeth/pseuds/solizabeth
Summary: He wants Jonny to know that he means this, he means them. Everything. All of it. Because there might be so many things they can’t do, so many things they wish they could say or be but -- here, now, on a rink in Winnipeg, Patrick wants Jonny to know.Jonny’s the love of his life, simple and plain. And he wants that to mean everything.(or: jonny and patrick go home to winnipeg for the holidays and go ice skating, naturally.)
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 22
Kudos: 188





	i'll be home (for christmas)

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello. 
> 
> so, there i was, recovering from eating myself into a coma on christmas when i thought -- i want a christmas fic. 
> 
> please enjoy the below! it's quite light, maybe touchesss of sadness right at the start, but all is well. there is no timeline to this, none of their games/season is related or referenced so it could be christmas any time. and if anyone lives in winnipeg and wants to berate me for how there is possibly no outdoor rink in the centre of town for ppl to skate at, at christmas time ... sorry?
> 
> disclaimer: this is rpf, i'm not stating any of the events actually happened between the people it's about etc. it's all for fun and holiday cheer. 
> 
> this is my christmas gift to you all. have a happy and safe holidays! :)

Patrick’s going to die.

Which, he grants, is incredibly dramatic. But it’s true. Unequivocally. Perhaps, unbelievably.

What perhaps is the most unbelievable is that more haven’t died before him, from this exact circumstance. That seems insane. Ludicrous. Ridiculous. Outrageous. Everything-ous.

So, Patrick’s not making sense. Which is understandable because he’s so fucking cold he’s going to _die._

Because who thought, who was the bright, clever person, who thought spending Christmas in Winnipeg was a good idea.

Spoiler: it was Jonny.

Patrick usually liked to not complain (which is potentially debatable) and was more than happy to just shut up and do what he was told, but, he’d sort of never been able to master that with Jonny.

Ever since they’d met, ever since Jonny had gripped his hand tight at the first Hawks event they both attended and said, _‘looks like we’re stuck together,’_ Patrick had fallen. Fallen head first into the reality where he wanted to spend the rest of his life annoying Jonny, being at the centre of his universe in any way he could manage.

His voice had been dry and his tone flat, but the corners of his lips had turned upward into the barest hint of a smile and Patrick _knew_ \-- this was where he was meant to be.

He’d remembered Jonny as a kid, sure. Had played with him and against him, kept tabs on his game and his career, the way he would with any good player he wanted to compare himself to. He remembers watching Jonny’s draft night, remembers thinking he should have gone higher (even if he’s spent over a decade reminding Jonny how much it must have sucked to go third. _We can’t all be number one, Toews_ ). He remembers the jolt of excitement he felt when he knew he was going to the Hawks, about what that meant for so, so many reasons but because -- because that’s where Jonny was going to be.

Jonny had gripped his hand and made the driest crack of humour he’d ever seen anyone attempt and Patrick has never stopped being obsessed with him.

Obsessed enough, apparently, to follow him to Winnipeg in the middle of fucking winter and go ice skating.

_Ice skating._

Because, you know, apparently Jonny had gone insane and forgotten that’s what they did _every single fucking day of their lives._

‘ _It will be fun,’_ Jonny had said, pulling Patrick’s beanie down over his eyes. Laughing at Patrick’s inability to see, like a _dick._

Patrick had lifted his hands to his face to pull the beanie back up, maybe to hit Jonny right in his dumb face, but Jonny had caught his wrists before he got the chance. He was running blind, pouting his bottom lip in the hopes Jonny would understand he was an utter _idiot,_ and felt a jolt like electric wire fuse beneath his skin when Jonny pressed his lips to the corner of his mouth a moment later.

Damn Jonny. Damn him and his ability to render Patrick speechless.

 _‘It will be fun,’_ Jonny said again, whispering it against Patrick’s mouth this time, soft and gentle and Patrick was powerless to do much more than shiver from it.

Damn Jonny.

So that was how Patrick found himself, skating outside in Winnipeg on Christmas Eve, snow falling and children laughing and a Christmas tree higher than probably the tallest building in this boring town lit up like a firework. It was cold and it was wet and it was biting and the colour from the tree was painting Jonny in brushes of reds, golds and greens. 

Patrick hates the guy, no doubt about it. Hated freezing his ass off in temperatures that surely weren’t legal to be out in and having to skate so slowly to not draw attention to themselves (or maim an innocent child ... Jonny). Hated the cold and the wind and Patrick couldn’t feel his fingers and he hates Jonny, no question, but he’s also never been in love with anyone more in his life. 

“Are you having fun?” Jonny asks, skating up close beside Patrick that he could almost feel his body warmth, if he pressed hard enough. 

He can’t, logically, because they’re both wearing about fifty layers between them and Patrick might get frostbite, but, the thought is there. It’s the thought that counts, really. 

Patrick turns to glare at him and Jonny laughs. 

Which seems an inaccurate response to a glare but Patrick also sort of loves it when Jonny laughs so, whatever. 

“Come on,” Jonny smiles, “don’t be like that.” 

He moves in front of Patrick, skating backwards effortlessly and reaching out his hands for Patrick to hold. He’s grinning and Patrick stares. Stares and stares until the grin cracks to a laugh and Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“I’m not your fucking girlfriend at family skate.” 

“No,” Jonny concedes and Patrick can tell he’s trying not to smile. “But, we have been together for almost ten years now and I’d like to hold your hands, if that’s okay.” 

Patrick guesses it would be _okay_. “Whatever makes you happy,” he says drily and Jonny just beams, all too knowing and all too pleased because, yeah, Patrick’s being a shit but Jonny also knows he’s the love of Patrick’s life. So. Holding hands would make Patrick happy too, obviously. Secretly. 

Jonny’s gloved fingers lace through his own and he pulls, just gently, gliding them both along with a poise neither of them have ever had to think twice about. It’s infinitely easier on better ice, naturally, and there’s too many people really to fly forward but Jonny’s eyes are crinkling at the corners and Patrick wants to do something reckless like kiss him. 

He won’t, because he’s had a decade to control himself, but despite that, despite everything, it never stops from hurting. 

“What are you thinking about?” Jonny asks quietly, barely audible above the flurry of noise surrounding them that Patrick has to lean closer to hear. 

“How I want to kiss you,” he says simply, feeling Jonny’s hands squeeze almost painfully tight when he does. He looks at their hands, just for a second, thick wool keeping their skin separate but Jonny’s thumb runs circles just the same. 

He knows it makes Jonny sad, too. He knows Jonny would love nothing more than to take Patrick’s face in his hands and kiss him, right here for everyone to see because they love each other and they should have a right to and who would give a fuck anyway but -- that’s not their reality. That’s not their past, present or foreseeable future. 

Maybe it will be one day. Maybe one day Jonny will take him home for the holidays and they’ll kiss senseless every moment they get. Patrick will kiss him at the grocery store, at the tree yard, at the movies, at the fucking ice rink. Anywhere they want. Any way they want. The future will be theirs and how they want to write it, and Patrick wants to write one where he is Jonny’s for the whole world to see, always. 

“We could,” Jonny says gently, moving in closer until all Patrick would have to do is lean forward, just a bit, just enough until -- 

“No,” he whispers instead, pushing Jonny back with their joined hands until there’s space between them again. 

Jonny won’t argue it because he’s not stupid. He’s sometimes stupid, sometimes a lot stupid, but not about things like this. He knows where they are, _who_ they are. He knows he’s practically a celebrity in this town and yeah, Patrick probably is too. Even being here at all, spending the holidays together in Winnipeg, skating around at the rink in the centre of town with their fingers twined, is probably not okay but fuck it if they weren’t feeling reckless. 

Jonny nods, because he _gets_ it, and squeezes Patrick’s fingers softer this time. “It’s alright, I’ll just help you skate. Make sure you don’t fall. Are you feeling okay, babe? Legs feeling wobbly?” 

Patrick sort of wants to punch him, because he’s clearly a prick, but he’s also biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing and Jonny’s just grinning like he’s the funniest fucking person alive. Which, Patrick can safely say he’s _not_. Jonny’s never made him laugh once, ever. Never. Ever ever. Any video ‘evidence’ is fabricated, obviously. 

“Fuck you,” he says, trying (and failing) to keep the grin out of it. 

“I was thinking later I’d fuck you,” Jonny smirks and Patrick doesn’t know what’s more embarrassing, the fact that despite the cold his face is heating up as if burnt or the fact he’s a professional fucking hockey player and he trips over his skates. 

Jonny laughs so loudly and so suddenly a family near them startles and stares and Patrick untangles one of their joined hands to punch Jonny right in the arm. 

“Shut _up_ ,” he groans, partially because Jonny’s the most embarrassing person alive and also, maybe, slightly because -- yeah, he really does want Jonny to fuck him later and he’s always been terrible at hiding that. 

Jonny knows that, too. 

He keeps Patrick’s hand in his own, the one that hadn’t just tried to bruise him through the thick layers of his coat and moves to skate by his side. He pulls Patrick in close a moment later, too close, and brings their joined hands to his lips. 

Patrick doesn’t know how he manages it, as he could have sworn the layers beneath his coat are fused to his skin at this point, but Jonny pushes at the material until the small, sliver of skin of his wrist is exposed. Patrick jolts, shivering slightly, when Jonny’s cold, dry lips press against his pulse point delicately. 

Patrick’s not even looking where they’re going at this point, and neither is Jonny, so he’s sort of desperately hoping any unsuspecting children have the right mind to move because all he can see is Jonny’s lips against his skin. 

Jonny shouldn’t have this power over him, he really shouldn’t, not after so long and not for something so small and so innocent but -- Jesus. Patrick hates him. 

“Your lips are freezing,” Patrick says, for lack of anything better to say, and Jonny’s lips curve against him into a smile. His teeth nip at the skin a moment later, light and quick and Patrick trembles from it. 

“Your skin is warm,” Jonny says in response, the sound sinking into his bones and getting trapped there. 

Patrick swallows around the dry knot in his throat, tightening his grip on Jonny’s fingers as he does. It takes everything, every ounce of self-control, not to pull Jonny in and bite down on his bottom lip. He wants to feel Jonny sigh into his mouth, to hold him close and near and feel pinned by him, right here on the ice. He wants to trace the lines of green that flash from the lights of the tree and are dancing across Jonny’s face, using his fingers as brushes against the beautiful canvas of Jonny’s features. 

It’s not fair, to love someone this much. 

Patrick doesn’t know if he deserves it, the fact that Jonny loves him too. But he does, inexplicably and without thought. 

They’ve been hopeless for each other, maybe since the moment forever began and Patrick can’t see a world set for them where that will ever change. 

Jonny lets their hands fall between them, keeping them linked, and smiles helplessly. “Sorry,” he says softly, but Patrick doesn’t think he means it. 

Patrick looks away, enough to glance around them. No one’s paying them any mind, lost in their own worlds of shameless fun and Christmas cheer or whatever it is people go to find at the ice rink beneath the tree on Christmas Eve. Patrick watches a couple, just for a second, the man unsteady on his feet and his girlfriend laughing helplessly. She holds him, close and tight and kisses him a beat later, arms around his shoulders and her long, blonde hair flying like ribbon in the wind. 

They’re both beautiful, light and fun and _easy_ and Patrick aches for something he’s never been able to have. 

But it’s Christmas, and everyone’s heedless at Christmas. Patrick acts without sense or care. But perhaps, it’s with more sense and care than anything he’s ever done before. 

He turns back to Jonny, and breathes once, maybe twice, before he’s letting their hands drop. Jonny ducks his head, as if hurt, but he won’t say anything. He moves to skate ahead, to put space between them but Patrick reaches out to stop him by gripping at his bicep. Jonny turns and he waits and Patrick runs his gloved hand up Jonny’s arm, over his shoulder, until he’s gripping at the side of his neck over his scarf. His other hand meets him there, curling at the juncture between his jaw and neck and holds. He simply holds. 

They’re not skating anymore, just standing, people moving in blurs of colour around them but all Patrick can see is Jonny. 

It’s Christmas and Patrick is reckless. 

He kisses Jonny, then. 

Jonny’s still, just for a moment, like he can’t believe it’s happening, maybe Patrick can’t believe it either but it doesn’t matter; once Jonny realises this is _real_ , he grips at Patrick like he’ll drown if he doesn’t. 

He holds on to Patrick by the sides of his face, gloved hands warm against the biting cold and kisses like he means it. 

Patrick’s fingers dig at the scarf around Jonny’s neck, dipping his fingers beneath the wool to touch at bare skin. Jonny jumps, only slightly, and presses his lips harder as if he’s got something to prove. 

Patrick feels swayed by it, almost off balance, and he has to catch himself in the thought he’s on ice before he does something embarrassing like fall flat on his ass. They’ve kissed on the ice before, in moments of weakness after practice or situations that led to them being alone with a rink to themselves, but nothing like this.

He wants Jonny to know that he means this, he means them. Everything. All of it. Because there might be so many things they can’t do, so many things they wish they could say or be but -- here, now, on a rink in Winnipeg, Patrick wants Jonny to know. 

Jonny’s the love of his life, simple and plain. And he wants that to mean everything. 

The corner of Jonny’s wool clad thumb brushes at the edges of their joint lips and Patrick leans back, just enough to smile and look into Jonny eyes; to hold his gaze there, strong and weighted and everything he hopes he means conveyed on his features. 

“I love you, yeah?” He says, hoping Jonny knows what that means. 

_I love you, yeah? You’re everything to me, Jonny. Everything. The only thing. And I’ll kiss you if I want to, for the whole world to see because you’re more important than the world. You’re mine, always._

That feels too much, though, even for Patrick. But Jonny knows, of course he does. He always has. 

Perhaps he didn’t, in the beginning. Too many years spent acting shy and foolish and coming to terms with a reality that wasn’t an easy one. Coming to terms with a world in which Patrick was choosing the road that was hard but infinitely, completely and entirely more wonderful. He spent too many years trying to figure himself out, hoping he’d understand how Jonny made him feel by finding the answer at the bottom of a shot glass. Stupid. Dumb. Idiotic. Time _wasted_. 

Jonny stayed, through all of it. Through all of Patrick’s _shit_ , he was there, ready and waiting and willing to be anything Patrick needed him to be. 

Patrick’s never needed anything more than Jonny to be one hundred percent himself. 

Patrick doesn’t think he deserves Jonny, but he’ll take him. He’ll take anything Jonny is willing to give because he learnt to be selfish and what it meant to love, completely. 

“I love you, too,” Jonny practically whispers, eyes bright and almost glassy. 

This, this makes Jonny happy, and Patrick will look for anything to spend every day making Jonny feel like this. It makes him happy too, immeasurably, but maybe he’s learnt to be selfless, too. 

“I’m still cold,” Patrick mumbles and Jonny laughs, warm and gentle and almost against Patrick’s lips. 

“We can go now, it’s okay,” Jonny smiles and Patrick finds himself shaking his head. 

“No way, Toews. You brought me here to skate, and we’re going to skate. I’ll have you know, I’m pretty good.” 

Jonny drops his hands from Patrick’s face, but not before his thumb quickly runs over the dip of Patrick’s dimple. He’s rolling his eyes, but still manages to look immeasurably fond and Patrick kisses him quickly one last time at the corner of his mouth before gliding backward and out of his space. 

“Race you to the other end?” Patrick grins and Jonny smirks. 

“You realise we’ll probably seriously injure a child if we skate that fast.” 

“Well, wouldn’t be the first time would it, Taze? Wouldn’t be the first time.” Patrick laughs because he’s hilarious, obviously, and Jonny’s going to go cross eyed with how much he’s glaring. 

“You’re so fucking funny aren’t you, Kaner?” 

Obviously. “Obviously.” 

Jonny raises his eyebrow, half in disbelief at Patrick’s stupidity (rude) and half in a challenge, and Patrick is going to tell him that it’s totally _on_ but Jonny skates away before he gets the chance. 

“Asshole,” Patrick mutters to himself, but can’t help from smiling, trying not to show teeth. He won’t give Jonny the satisfaction. 

He will chase after him, though (at a respectful and non-attention drawing pace), and he won’t hesitate to wipe the fucking ice with Jonny’s ass. Jonny deserves it, anyway. He’s made Patrick come out here, on Christmas Eve, to freeze his fucking ass off and for what? 

To make Patrick happy? To tell him he loves him and make him laugh? To kiss him in the snow and make his heart swell in his chest? To give Patrick already one of the best Christmas’s he’s ever had?

How dare he. 

What an asshole. 

**\-----**

“Come on, Jonny, yeah, that’s it.” 

Patrick’s practically moaning, already, and Jonny’s barely touched him yet. 

He would feel ashamed about it, too wanton, but he doesn’t really care because Jonny’s teeth are on his neck and his hands pulling at the hem of his sweater. Jonny’s got him pressed up against the back of the door, rough and insistent and demanding and Patrick’s pliant beneath his touch. 

They’re staying at Jonny’s parents, which is lovely and all but Patrick was going out of his mind having to drink tea and listen to Christmas music whilst Andreé made Jonny dance with her around the living room. So, okay, it was sort of fucking amazing and Patrick was beside himself with happiness and Jonny’s dad was laughing and Patrick was laughing and Jonny was downright grumbling about it and Patrick felt light and _soft_. 

Patrick loves Jonny’s family -- _his_ family, too. He guesses. He hopes he’s allowed that. 

They’ve never made Patrick feel anything but welcome, never loved him anything less than someone they viewed as a son and Patrick’s thankful for so many things; thankful for his career, his success, for Jonny and everything he’s ever brought and for Jonny’s family, equally. 

They’ve spent the holidays together before, when both their parents have joined them in Chicago; Patrick would always look around the table at Christmas dinner, feeling his heart swell to a size that surely wasn't natural to be in his chest. They’ve been to Winnipeg together, to visit Jonny’s family (and not to mention play about a million games), perhaps hundreds of times but never for the holidays. Patrick doesn’t really know why, perhaps a matter of not having the time, wanting to be careful, to not be seen; but when Jonny had asked him back in November, looking up from behind his cup of herbal tea across the kitchen counter to say, _‘can we spend Christmas with my parents this year? In Winnipeg?’_ Patrick was powerless to do much more than lean over the counter to kiss him as a _yes._

Andreé had almost cried over the phone when Jonny called to tell her. 

So, he loves them, and he truly had been having a fantastic evening of ice skating and laughing at Jonny’s expense with Bryan and then promptly regretting that a moment later when Andreé had pulled him out of his chair, too, and made him waltz her around to the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald’s, _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_. Jonny had laughed at him, but also looked incredibly soft and when Andreé pulled him in close to whisper in his ear, _‘Merry Christmas, Patrick. You’re the best thing to ever happen to Jonathan,’_ Patrick had felt his eyes go wet.

He’d hugged her close, whispering a gentle, _‘thank you,’_ and hoped she knew how much he loved her. 

But through all of it, through everything, Patrick had been going out of his mind because he’d wanted what was happening right now, right this second; Jonny’s lips on his skin and his hands on his body and heading in a direction he’d been desperate for ever since he’d kissed Jonny in the snow under the lights of the Winnipeg Christmas tree. 

“Gotta be quiet,” Jonny murmurs against him and Patrick nods, even though he already has this sinking feeling he’s going to fail at that, miserably. 

He doesn’t want to scar Jonny’s parents for life, he really doesn’t, but Jonny always makes these ridiculous demands like, _‘be quiet,’_ and then will proceed to take Patrick apart with sometimes nothing but his tongue and how is Patrick meant to comply? 

They could have stayed at Jonny’s condo in Winnipeg, sure, but someone had some brilliant idea it would be _nice_ to stay with Jonny’s parents and yeah -- that had been Patrick. Which was obviously _stupid_ and Patrick's willing to take the blame, just this once. 

“You could gag me?” Patrick suggests as a joke (sort of) but his voice sort of cracks and Jonny grips tighter and it’s maybe not the worst idea he’s ever had. 

Jonny almost hums against the column of his throat. “Tempting. But not very Christmassy.” 

“Well shit, should I have wrapped myself up in a bow? Jumped out of a Christmas box like a stripper?” 

Jonny laughs as he stands up straight, grabbing Patrick by the hem of his sweater and pulling it up and over his head swiftly. Patrick lifts his arms as Jonny does, blindly and without thought, like he’s done a thousand times before when Jonny’s stripped him of his clothes. 

Jonny’s fingers run through his curls a second later, smiling gently to himself when he does. “So soft. So messy. I love your hair, Pat.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Can you shut up and like, get naked though?” 

Jonny rolls his eyes right back, but grins all the same, shoving Patrick back against the door to give them space. Patrick goes with a thud and bites his lip, just a bit, more than happy to admit that rough Jonny is one of his favourite Jonny’s. He almost wants to ask for it like that tonight; biting and bruising and _hard_ and enough to leave him with a limp in his step tomorrow and the shape of Jonny’s hands on his hips but -- to quote Jonny, he’s not sure that would be very _Christmassy_. 

Jesus. Is this what it has come to? Dictating their sex life to the vibe of the holiday they’re celebrating? 

They can save the rough-holiday-sex for St. Patrick’s Day. That is Patrick’s holiday, after all. 

Patrick stares, helpless and hungry when Jonny pushes his jeans and boxer briefs down in one go, his sweatshirt already off and muscles rippling _everywhere._ Patrick’s not going to straight up drool, because he has at least a modicum of self-respect, but he doesn’t hesitate to press the heel of his palm to the front of his sweats. He lets out a breath at the slight (slight) release of pressure, wanting nothing more than to touch himself properly at just the sight of Jonny; naked and trusting and perfect.

“You going to just stand there?” Jonny says, as if almost amused, and Patrick wants to bitch at him that _yeah, maybe I will,_ but Jonny crowds him back up against the door.

Both hands rest at either side of Patrick’s head and he never fails to make Patrick feel so _small_ from this position. Patrick looks up at him, through heavy lashes before turning his head to bite a kiss to the skin of Jonny’s wrist.

Jonny’s free hand almost snaps to dig into his curls, his hold tight and guiding.

“Want you to wreck me,” Patrick muses, voice low and glancing back to look at Jonny. He couldn’t miss it if he tried, the way Jonny’s eyes turn dark, darker than they already shockingly were, and he almost growls.

He drops the hand that had been pulling at Patrick’s hair to the waist of his sweats, hooking his grip through the band and dragging Patrick roughly into his chest. He keeps their eyes locked as he takes the necessary steps back, keeping Patrick tightly to him until the backs of his knees _thud_ against the end of the bed.

Jonny turns, swapping their positions before using the hold he has on Patrick to push him roughly backward onto the mattress.

Patrick gasps from it, from being practically tossed like he weighs _nothing_ and sitting up on his elbows to appreciate the view.

Jonny smirks, the cocky fucker, and crawls forward on his knees so he’s between Patrick’s already spread legs. “Hmm, these are a nuisance,” he says, bunching the material of Patrick’s sweats over his thighs. Patrick can feel the dig of it even through the fabric.

“Well do something about it, then,” Patrick says, hoping for casual but hitting tones of desperate.

Jonny ducks his head, hands braced on either side of Patrick’s hips, and lets his lips press to the patch of skin mere inches above the band of material that’s offending him so damn much. It’s offending Patrick too, honestly, and even more so when Jonny decides to close his mouth right over the line of his dick to moan gently against the grey fabric.

“Shit,” Patrick whines, watching Jonny’s mouth work against him, getting the fabric damp and getting him _aching._ “Don’t mess around Jonny, come on.”

He watches the corners of Jonny’s mouth turn upward in a smile and he wants to hit him. Tease.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Jonny murmurs against him and the movement of it makes Patrick flinch.

He sits up and curls his grip around the band at Patrick’s waist, pulling Patrick’s hips up off the bed and his sweats down all in one go. Patrick helps him kick them off, shivering from it when he’s bare, completely and utterly.

Jonny drinks him in, face open and bare with want and it never fails to make Patrick preen, just a bit.

He puts his hands to Patrick’s thighs, pushing his legs down and apart until the stretch sings soundly through his muscles. Jonny looks so perfect like this, on his knees between Patrick’s thighs, eyes raking up and down his body like he can’t decide which bit he wants to destroy first.

“Turn over,” Jonny says finally, as if he’s made up his mind on what he wants.

Patrick does so, gladly, rolling until he’s on his stomach and face turned into the pillows. Jonny’s fingers squeeze at his hip and drags, slightly.

“Hands and knees,” he says, voice deep and commanding in the way that never fails to make heat spark through the base of Patrick’s spine.

He follows, blindly and quickly, hanging his head low and letting his fingers curl in the sheets in anticipation. Jonny’s hand flattens to the space between his shoulder blades, his touch weighted and strong. He moves his palm down, slowly down the length of Patrick’s spine, and Patrick can hear his breath hitch when he arches his lower back down to create a perfect dip.

“So perfect,” Jonny breathes, taking Patrick by his hips and leaning down to kiss his lips to the base of Patrick’s spine, right over the dimples of his lower back. Patrick knows Jonny could spend all day kissing him, right there, with no intent, no rush, simple and easy and uncomplicated. “Stay still,” he says a beat later, pressing a quick, gentle kiss before leaning back and off the bed.

Patrick can hear him sifting through his bag in the corner of the room, finding what he needs and returning to his position behind Patrick, quick and hurried. Patrick knows when Jonny is desperate, when he wants Patrick so badly he’s aching from it and anything that gets in his way is nothing more than a severe inconvenience. Finding the lube that somehow always manages to fall right to the bottom of his bag is offender number one, constantly.

He waits, drunk with heady anticipation, for Jonny to make his move, almost about ready to bitch at him to just _get a move on,_ when Jonny’s teeth sink down into the flesh of his ass.

He groans from it, just a bit, the sound growing when Jonny’s wet fingers drag and circle over his rim. “Jesus,” he gasps, tightening the sheets between his fingers. “Come on, Jonny.”

Jonny breathes a laugh against him, lips still pressing dangerously close to his fingers and Patrick almost lets his arms buckle when Jonny doesn’t hesitate to slide a finger into him, quick and without pretence.

Patrick loves when Jonny’s like this, efficient to the point where Patrick feels like he’s crumbling instantly. Jonny’s relentless, because he knows Patrick can take it. He used to take his time, opening Patrick up delicately and slowly until Patrick was whining at him to just _do it_ already. He knows just how to get Patrick now, just how to push, just enough that Patrick’s gasping around nothing but two fingers and eager for more in what feels like seconds. Jonny’s still careful, always, but he knows how to bring Patrick to the edge of too much without it being painful or careless.

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to start moaning, rocking his hips back on three fingers and wanting _moremoremore._

“Come on,” he breathes, biting his teeth into his own bicep to stop himself from being too loud. “Let’s go.”

“You sure?” Jonny asks lightly, as if he were asking about the fucking weather and Patrick hates him so much he --

“Yes I’m sure, you idiot.”

Jonny crooks his fingers, just slightly, and smacks Patrick on the ass all at once.

Patrick has to drop his face into the pillows to trap the sound that crawls its way out of his throat.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Jonny asks, and Patrick turns his head just enough to both breathe and respond.

“I hate you,” he says simply, and Jonny chuckles. _Chuckles._

“Really?” Jonny replies, slowly, “Even when I do … this?”

Jonny presses directly against his prostate, relentless and unmoving and Patrick claws at the sheets and whines helplessly.

“ _Especially_ when you do that.”

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Jonny says finally, letting up on the pressure that was curling its way through Patrick’s blood stream. He breathes, loud and heavy and with the barest hint of desperation when Jonny’s fingers slip from him effortlessly.

“Can we -- I want you like this,” Jonny muses, as if thinking out loud, and positions himself down on his side on the mattress. He pulls at Patrick, bringing him down from his knees and pulling his back flush against his chest, as if they’re spooning.

Patrick goes with it, already feeling slightly limp and yielding, letting Jonny’s arms curl around him and hold him close. It’s nice, sweet, and Patrick’s caught in a moment where he twines their hands together across his chest and holds on tight, to the point where it will be bruising if he doesn’t let up. He doesn’t plan to.

He does let Jonny untangle one of their hands though, just enough to grab the lube from where he’d dropped it by Patrick’s knees and take what feels like a moment stretching into forever to use it and line himself up perfectly behind Patrick.

He kisses the top of Patrick’s spine, lifts Patrick’s leg up just slightly so he slots in right where he needs to be and pushes forward tantalisingly slow. Patrick breathes through it, soft, gentle gasps coming out from between his lips as Jonny grips onto his shoulder, as if anchoring himself. He pushes deep, as deep as he can go, and simply holds still, just for a second, just for an eternity.

“Yeah,” he whispers into the skin of Patrick’s neck, “ _perfect_.”

Patrick nods, unable to do much more than that, and claws at his shoulder with his free hand until he finds Jonny’s. He takes his fingers, grips them in his own, and brings his arm back around his middle. Jonny’s covering him, completely and wholly and draped across his back like he belongs there; he _does,_ always.

“ _Move,”_ Patrick almost mutters, moving his own hips back against Jonny in a tantalising grind.

Jonny throws a leg over Patrick’s, hooking and twisting their ankles together and rolls his hips forward. Patrick moans with it, squeezing at Jonny’s fingers and rolls his own hips back to meet him.

They move like that, Jonny dragging forward and Patrick pushing back, the perfect tandem of _pushpullpushpull_ until their breaths become thick and heavy and laboured. Jonny’s mouthing at the top of his spine, breathing him in more than actually presses of his lips and Patrick’s turning his head into the pillows to mute the sounds singing from him.

 _Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet,_ he chants in his mind, over and over until he’s dizzy from it. Dizzy from Jonny.

When Jonny rolls his hips so wonderfully hard Patrick moans from it, loud and sudden and bites down on his bottom lip a second later to stop himself. Jonny untangles their fingers of one hand, just enough so he can bring his fingers to Patrick’s mouth and press at his lips. Patrick opens for him, easy and practiced, sucking Jonny’s index and middle fingers, hard, into his mouth almost down to the knuckle.

“ _Shit,”_ Jonny gasps, driving in hard and Patrick groans around his fingers.

It’s good, too good, almost perfect, and Patrick feels close to Jonny in a way he feels so tethered by. He _feels_ Jonny, here with him, in this bed, in Winnipeg, in every way he can fathom and he never wants that feeling to end. He wants Jonny deeper, rougher, in a way that will hit him like an electric shock. He feels heavy and punch drunk, like he could continue on, just like this, until morning comes. But he feels desperate, too, desperate to drive this home to an end that will leave him with stars behind his eyes.

He bites down on Jonny’s fingers, just enough so Jonny will get what that means. He does, and drags them, deliriously slow, from Patrick’s mouth.

“I want --” Patrick tires, shocking himself when his voice comes out scratched and deep. “Can I ride you?”

Jonny bites down on Patrick’s shoulder to mute the groan that rumbles deep in his chest. He holds Patrick against him, tight and strong and takes a moment to centre himself. “Yeah -- yes,” he says finally, “as if you have to ask.”

Jonny moves his leg from where it’s slung heavy over Patrick’s thigh, moving back enough that he slides out gently and Patrick sighs from it. He takes a moment, albeit a short one, to press his lips to Jonny’s wrist before he’s sitting up and turning to throw a leg over Jonny’s hip. He looks down at Jonny and smiles, smiles at the way the colour of Christmas red has crawled its way up Jonny’s chest, his neck and high onto his cheeks. He reaches out a hand to run his fingers down the colour, dipping in the corner of Jonny’s mouth.

“Hi,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss Jonny a second later.

“Hi,” Jonny murmurs against his mouth, the smile in it clear and bright, even if he does sound sort of wrecked already.

Patrick keeps his lips firmly on Jonny’s as he rises up on his knees, reaching behind him to wrap his deft fingers tightly around the length of Jonny, relishing in the gasp he receives right into his mouth. He eases down on Jonny perfectly, tight and controlled and getting hit with such sudden _relief_ he sighs from it.

“Shit -- _yeah_ ,” he sighs, “that’s it.”

Jonny grunts like he agrees, and Patrick bites down on his bottom lip to let it pull gently between his teeth.

He draws back, enough to look at Jonny properly and get both his hands on Jonny’s chest to anchor himself. Jonny’s grip is quick to grab at his waist, tight and insistent, like he’s stopping himself from simply putting his feet flat on the bed and pushing upward and into Patrick.

Patrick smirks, just a bit, and rocks up on his knees before he brings himself back down. And _yeah, yeah,_ that’s perfect. That’s what he wanted. What he _needed._

“ _Jonny,”_ he tries to whisper, the sound barely coming out from between his lips but playing there all the same.

He’s moving quicker now, harder, finding a rhythm that hits him so _perfectly_ he’s feeling heat burn its way through his veins. He finds the angle that causes him to moan, helpless and loud and Jonny’s going to tell him to shut up any second but he doesn’t _care_ because this -- this is perfect.

“Oh god,” Jonny almost chokes, his grip on Patrick’s skin bruising. “Don’t stop.”

 _As if,_ Patrick thinks, hoping the light slap to Jonny’s chest conveys just that.

Patrick removes a hand from Jonny to wrap around his dick, heavy and aching and just the touch makes him feel tongue tied. He groans despite himself, throwing his head back until the column of his throat is exposed and he’s gasping to the ceiling. Jonny’s grip shifts to his back, holding on firm and strong and sitting up on the bed until his face is almost level with Patrick’s.

The shift in angle makes Patrick want to shout, but he bites down on his lip to stop himself. Jonny plants one hand on the bed, just long enough to use it as leverage to move them back slightly so he can rest back against the headboard and keep them both upright. Patrick should be used to it, but Jonny’s strength never fails to make his toes curl. The fact he has to walk around with the knowledge that at any moment, any second, Jonny could throw him over his shoulder like it wasn’t even a big deal -- it’s cruel.

Jonny has both arms around Patrick’s waist, fingers digging into his skin and Patrick works his hand quicker around himself. He uses the other to wrap around the back of Jonny’s neck, pulling him in close until their foreheads rest together. Patrick wants to close his eyes but he forces himself to keep them open, enough so he can look directly into Jonny and watch the usual chocolate be overrun by pure black.

“I love you,” Jonny breathes against his mouth, and Patrick takes the air right out of him.

“I love you more,” Patrick replies, voice scratching like Jonny’s mom’s Christmas vinyls that have been spun too many times.

Jonny laughs against his lips, as if the sound has been practically punched out of him.

Patrick hopes that Jonny would know he’d win that competition every time. Jonny can argue it all he wants, he can set up a PowerPoint presentation for all Patrick cares, but Patrick will win every. damn. time.

No one’s ever loved someone the way he loves Jonny.

And God, maybe that’s self-centred and conceited and ridiculous but here, in this moment, Patrick knows nothing to be as true. Or as real.

“I’m close,” he whines into Jonny’s skin and Jonny grinds up into him. “Yeah, shit -- _Jonny_ \-- just like that _._ ”

He anchors himself on the grip around the back of Jonny’s neck, lets it guide him as his thighs tense and his back starts to arch. He moves his hand, quicker and quicker until he can’t help but let his eyes squeeze shut. It’s too much, bright and wonderful and incredible and it’s too much but it’s everything Patrick will ever need.

Thoughts of _JonnyJonnyJonny_ float behind his eyes, when all he can see otherwise is pure, blinding light. Jonny’s mouth covers his own when he starts moaning loudly, words of, _oh god, oh shit, yes, fuck, Jonny,_ spilling out and swallowed by Jonny’s tongue.

His orgasm is knocked out of him, blinding and striking, come painting across Jonny’s abs and chest. God, he loves that. Always has.

He’s still rocking his hips, chasing the last few rays of sunlight that blind him. He feels high, like he’s floating, and it takes a beat for him to realise he’s whispering, _I love you,_ over and over against Jonny’s lips.

Jonny’s groaning against him now, outright grunting and Patrick clenches around him tightly.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Jonny almost shouts and Patrick sucks on his tongue to shut him up.

He feels tight, almost sensitive, but he rides himself on Jonny to help him reach the finish line. “Come on,” he says, completely breathless and worn, “come for me, Jonny.”

That does it.

Always.

He _feels_ it when Jonny comes inside him, which never fails to be deliriously kind of _great_ and keeps on swallowing the moans right off Jonny’s tongue. Jonny’s always loud when he finishes, always grunting and shouting and Patrick always loves when it’s shouted right into him.

Jonny grips at Patrick’s hips to slow him down, just enough to try and regain his breath and bite his teeth gently against Patrick’s bottom lip.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he says finally, after time has started to stretch into fragments of an endless stream of lips and gripping fingers and rapidly beating hearts. “Holy shit.”

“Mmm,” Patrick murmurs, peppering kisses over every inch of Jonny’s face. He brushes his lips over Jonny’s eyelids, the bridge of his nose, his temple, over and over and everywhere he can.

“Let me --” Jonny tries, using his hold on Patrick’s waist to lift him up gently and slide out slowly.

Patrick sighs from it, like he always does, and bites in a sharp intake of air a moment later when Jonny’s fingers slip into him without warning.

“Always feels so good,” Jonny murmurs against his cheek, and Patrick hits lightly at his shoulder.

“You’re such an asshole.”

“I know,” Jonny replies, completely uncaring and Patrick groans against the way Jonny’s fingers move, lucid and gentle.

“Come on,” Patrick whines, dropping his forehead to Jonny’s shoulder and Jonny kisses lightly at the side of his curls.

“Sorry,” he whispers, letting his fingers drag out softly and pulling slightly on the rim as he does.

Patrick squirms and bites down on the side of Jonny’s neck. “Hate you.”

“Love you, too,” Jonny replies, the smile clear in his voice.

Patrick lets Jonny use the grip around his waist to turn them and lower Patrick gently down on his back. He keeps his arms where they are, and Patrick rests his palms on his shoulders, looking up at him with reverence.

Jonny’s skin is flushed and warm to the touch and Patrick finds himself smiling from it, hopelessly. Jonny smiles back, much like he always does, but it never fails to make Patrick feel soft.

“I’ll be back in a second,” Jonny says, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth before he’s ducking off quickly to the bathroom.

Patrick sighs happily when Jonny returns barely a minute later and switches off the lights, letting Jonny pull the covers out from underneath him so they can burrow beneath them. Jonny runs a warm, wet cloth up the backs of his thighs and over the spots that make him shudder and breathe gently into the pillows. Jonny kisses the curve of his shoulder whilst he does it, his touch soft and quick.

Jonny pulls him in tightly when he’s done, Patrick’s back to his chest, much like when they were having sex and Patrick smiles contently when he tightens Jonny’s arms around his middle.

“I hope your parents didn’t hear,” Patrick murmurs and Jonny laughs quietly against the back of his neck.

“Nah, doubt it. I think they both drank enough to be out like a light.”

“Good,” Patrick nods, “because I need them to love me, forever.”

“They will.”

Patrick was joking, perhaps only slightly, but Jonny’s words are heavy and _true_ and hit him like a slap to the face. The good kind. The wonderful kind.

He pulls Jonny in tighter. “Good. Are you going to love me forever, too?”

His tone is light but Jonny _knows_ , he always does.

“Patrick,” he whispers, brushing his lips over the skin of Patrick’s shoulder, his touch feather light. “I will love you until my heart stops beating. No matter what. I’ll never stop.”

Patrick’s smiling, helplessly, but only because he knows Jonny can’t see him. “Sap.”

Jonny hums in content, like he couldn’t care less, and doesn’t stop the press of his lips, over and over.

Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever deserved Jonny, but he doesn’t doubt how much Jonny loves him.

He’s never doubted how much he loves Jonny in return, endless and consuming and _bright_ and everything Patrick will ever need.

Because here, in a bed in Winnipeg, with the weather outside so frightful and horrible, Patrick is warm and safe in Jonny’s arms. He’s warm and safe with Jonny, always.

“Patrick,” Jonny whispers again, almost on the edge of sleep and dripping in lucidity, “all I want for Christmas … is --”

“If you say ‘you’ I’m going to turn around and hit you.”

Jonny laughs, nothing but a deep, quiet, rumble and Patrick laughs too, bringing Jonny’s hand to his lips to kiss gently at his palm.

This, this is all Patrick will ever need.

Always.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! would love to know if you did!
> 
> [come find me over on twitter :)](https://mobile.twitter.com/solizabeth_)
> 
> [or tumblr :))](https://pkanerr.tumblr.com/)


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